Is It Poetry
To All Of You, I Once Promised
Greetings to you, all of you, I again promise.
To all of you, but not them.
I never said,
never have I said, that they are blessed
without ever knowing, you are them.
And yet I was walking here behind you,
always, I never ran.
You before me, walking in league with your shadow.
Return to the place,
before you were born as I hear,
all the same words, you were to them speaking.
I know where you hide them,
where even my children know You, the Unborn,
knowing there birds here can fly without wings.
For all of your marriage's to mental hospitals,
prisons and your great morbid gordid.
This will be your next sunny sky,
for both you and your sons and my daughters.
To undo, And while never knowing, trying to evolve.
Why place thine blessed mother and father,
rather than yourself,
as it was then and even unto now
to your own detriment.
So for all the children, I went ahead,
you can not look back, but can still follow?
Questions for answers, I talked to you,
and as to why, after that, no one would listen.
Now look to these thy children of mine,
and you had them like goats
and sheep their innocent throats slit.
Prophet's will come, without stupor or numbness.
Where you sleep at my side, here before me.
I would go far up, down below,
and in trust for you, would I place them.
Religion has seen that science is not blind,
here's some more but for one, will not be.
Afraid of the dark,
here all alone all of this to You, I once promised.
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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